On the way to the hospital I hear myself thinking, — “Dear God, please don’t let my mom die. At least let me say ‘good-bye’,”
There’s nothing unusual about such a prayer, except that I’m an agnostic. I fall firmly in category five of Richard Dawkin’s “spectrum of theistic probability”; — “Leaning towards Agnosticism. Lower than 50% but not very low. ‘I do not know whether God exists but I’m inclined to be skeptical.’”
Even as I pray it, it’s not as if I actually think a Supreme Being is listening directly to my individual request. I am well aware that earlier in the week thousands of Filipino families lost family members in that devastating hurricane. Tens of thousands of people just like me praying to God that their father, or mother, or son, or daughter would be found alive, somewhere. How did that work out? Am I to think my prayer is more important … that I am somehow more special … that God should answer ME, not them? Of course, that’s just plain idiotic.
Yet, I keep saying that 14-word prayer in my head the entire forty-minute drive to the hospital.
I really don’t know what to expect. All I know is that my 80 year old mom — a frail woman of about 100 pounds — fell down a flight of uncarpeted stairs unto a concrete floor, and that she lay in a pool of her own blood for about six hours. God must have been too busy that day.
It disgusts me to see people praying to God after a disaster. Even this very moment teevee is showing people crying out for God’s protection and strength in the wake of the tornados that slammed the Midwest last night. ARE YOU PEOPLE NUTS??!! You should HATE this God … this tyrant who doesn’t give a damn about your dead momma he ‘just took home’. You praise him when he spares your loved one, and give him a pass when he doesn’t. You people disgust me.
I held it together pretty damn well when I heard the news. I held it together pretty damn well on the ride to the hospital. Not a tear to be seen. I am a strong man. I can handle this. No one lives forever. Few people get to have both their parents for 80+ years. I’m trying to be grateful. Also, I need to be strong for my dad.
I get to the Robert Wood Johnson Trauma Center, quite possible the best in central Jersey. My dad and sister are already in the Critical Care room. They only allow one person at a time, have already made an exception, and will not let me in. I’m too exhausted to argue. The entrance is about 100 feet from the reception desk. I casually saunter over there, wait for someone to leave, and then sneak it before the door closes. I wander around looking for the right room, the place is huge. No one stops me. Bodies everywhere, people groaning, some screaming, …blood … I don’t know how our doctors here deal with this day-in day-out. God bless ‘em. At last, I see my sister standing in the doorway.
Two seconds after I see my mom I break out into deep sobbing. To see her lying there … this woman who was tortured in a Russian prison camp … blood seeping from her bandages, the bruises clearly visible, some kind of tube stuck in her chest and the machine making some gurgling sound, morphine drops, other drips, she looked so broken. But, when she saw me, she smiled.
I couldn’t speak at all even if I wanted to. What would I say? So, I stood next to her bed, kissed her on the forehead, put my hand on her shoulder, and stroked her hair for a good long while. After sometime she was able to whisper, “Weine nicht. Gott ist mit uns.” (Don’t cry. God is with us.)
“Yes, He is.”
It makes no sense for me to say such a thing … or, even think it. If I were true to my beliefs I would hate God, if he even exists. But, I can’t. Not today. Maybe even never again. I just don’t know. I have no grand theological or philosophical treatise today to explain what is happening. I have but three words.
“Thank You, God.”
And if you have a problem with that, well … that’s your problem. I am soooo OK with it. And, at peace.
Most importantly, thank you to all of you who kept my mom, my family, and me in your prayers.
